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AMORES 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  D.  H.  LAWRENCE 

THE  RAINBOW 

THE  PRUSSIAN  OFFICER  AND  OTHER 
STORIES 

TWILIGHT  IN   ITALY 


AMORES 

POEMS 

BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 

NEW  YORK 

B.  W.  HUEBSCH 

1916 

Copyright,  1916,  by 
D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


TO 

OTTOLINE  MORRELL 

IN   TRIBUTE 

TO   HER   NOBLE 

AND  INDEPENDENT  SYMPATHY 

AND    HER  GENEROUS   UNDERSTANDING 

THESE   POEMS 

ARE  GRATEFULLY   DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 
Tease,  i 

The  Wild  Common,  3. 
Study,  6 

Discord  in  Childhood,  8 
Virgin  Youth,  9 
Monologue  of  a  Mother,  10 
In  a  Boat,  13 
Week-night  Service,  15 
Irony,  17 
Dreams  Old,  19 
Dreams  Nascent,  21 
A  Winter's  Tale,  25 
Epilogue,  26 

A  Baby  Running  Barefoot,  27 
Discipline,  28 
Scent  of  Irises,  31 
The  Prophet,  34 
Last  Words  to  Miriam,  35 
Mystery,  37 
Patience,  39 

Ballad  of  Another  Ophelia,  40 
Restlessness,  42 


CONTENTS 


A  Baby  Asleep  After  Pain,  45 

Anxiety,  46 

The  Punisher,  47 

The  End,  49 

The  Bride,  50 

The  Virgin  Mother,  51 

At  the  Window,  53 

Drunk,  54 

Sorrow,  58 

Dolor  of  Autumn,  59 

The  Inheritance,  61 

Silence,  63 

Listening,  64 

Brooding  Grief,  66 

Lotus  Hurt  by  the  Cold,  67 

Malade,  68 

Liaison,  70 

Troth  with  the  Dead,  72 

Dissolute,  73 

Submergence,  74 

The  Enkindled  Spring,  75 

Reproach,  76 

The  Hands  of  the  Betrothed,  78 

Excursion,  81 

Perfidy,  83 

A  Spiritual  Woman,  85 

Mating,  87 

A  Love  Song,  90 


CONTENTS 


Brother  and  Sister,  92 

After  Many  Days,  94 

Blue,  95 

Snap-Dragon,  99 

A  Passing  Bell,  105 

In  Trouble  and  Shame,  107 

Elegy,  108 

Grey  Evening,  109 

Firelight  and  Nightfall,  1 1 1 

The  Mystic  Blue,  112 


AMORES 


TEASE 

I  WILL  give  you  all  my  keys, 

You  shall  be  my  chatelaine, 
You  shall  enter  as  you  please, 

As  you  please  shall  go  again. 

When  I  hear  you  jingling  through 
All  the  chambers  of  my  soul, 

How  I  sit  and  laugh  at  you 
In  your  vain  housekeeping  role. 

Jealous  of  the  smallest  cover. 
Angry  at  the  simplest  door; 

Well,  you  anxious,  inquisitive  lover. 
Are  you  pleased  with  what's  in  store? 

You  have  fingered  all  my  treasures, 
Have  you  not,  most  curiously, 

Handled  all  my  tools  and  measures 
And  masculine  machinery? 


[  I  ] 


TEASE 

Over  every  single  beauty 

You  have  had  your  little  rapture; 
You  have  slain,  as  was  your  duty, 

Every  sin-mouse  you  could  capture. 

Still  you  are  not  satisfied, 

Still  you  tremble  faint  reproach; 
Challenge  me  I  keep  aside 

Secrets  that  you  may  not  broach. 

Maybe  yes,  and  maybe  no. 
Maybe  there  are  secret  places, 

Altars  barbarous  below. 

Elsewhere  halls  of  high  disgraces. 

Maybe  yes,  and  maybe  no. 

You  may  have  it  as  you  please, 

Since  I  choose  to  keep  you  so. 
Suppliant  on  your  curious  knees. 


[    2    ] 


THE  WILD  COMMON 

The  quick  sparks  on  the  gorse  bushes  are  leaping, 
Little  jets  of  sunlight-texture  imitating  flame; 
Above  them,  exultant,  the  pee-wits  are  sweeping: 
They  are  lords  of  the  desolate  wastes  of  sadness 
their  screamings  proclaim. 

Rabbits,  handfuls  of  brown  earth,  lie 
Low-rounded  on  the  mournful  grass  they  have  bitten 

down  to  the  quick. 
Are  they  asleep?  —  Are  they  alive?  —  Now  see, 

when  I 
Move  my  arms  the  hill  bursts  and  heaves  under  their 

spurting  kick. 

The  common  flaunts  bravely;  but  below,  from  the 

rushes 
Crowds  of  glittering  king-cups  surge  to  challenge  the 

blossoming  bushes; 
There  the  lazy  streamlet  pushes 
Its  curious  course  mildly;  here  it  wakes  again,  leaps, 

laughs,  and  gushes. 

[  3  ] 


THE  WILD  COMMON 

Into  a  deep  pond,  an  old  sheep-dip, 

Dark,  overgrown  with  willows,  cool,  with  the  brook 

ebbing  through  so  slow, 
Naked  on  the  steep,  soft  lip 
Of  the  bank  I  stand  watching  my  own  white  shadow 

quivering  to  and  fro. 

What  if  the  gorse  flowers  shrivelled  and  kissing  were 
lost? 

Without  the  pulsing  waters,  where  were  the  mari- 
golds and  the  songs  of  the  brook? 

If  my  veins  and  my  breasts  with  love  embossed 

Withered,  my  insolent  soul  would  be  gone  like  flowers 
that  the  hot  wind  took. 

So  my  soul  like  a  passionate  woman  turns, 

Filled  with  remorseful  terror  to  the  man  she  scorned, 

and  her  love 
For  myself  in  my  own  eyes*  laughter  burns, 
Runs  ecstatic  over  the  pliant  folds  rippling  down  to 

my  belly  from  the  breast-lights  above. 

Over  my  sunlit  skin  the  warm,  clinging  air. 
Rich  with  the  songs  of  seven  larks  singing  at  once, 
goes  kissing  me  glad. 

[4] 


THE  WILD  COMMON 

And  the  soul  of  the  wind  and  my  blood  compare 
Their  wandering  happiness,  and  the  wind,  wasted  in 
liberty,  drifts  on  and  is  sad. 

Oh  but  the  water  loves  me  and  folds  me, 

Plays  with  me,  sways  me,  lifts  me  and  sinks  me  as 

though  it  were  living  blood. 
Blood  of  a  heaving  woman  who  holds  me, 
Owning  my  supple  body  a  rare  glad  thing,  supremely 

good. 


[  5  ] 


STUDY 

Somewhere  the  long  mellow  note  of  the  blackbird 
Quickens  the  unclasping  hands  of  hazel, 
Somewhere  the  wind-flowers  fling  their  heads  back, 
Stirred  by  an  impetuous  wind.     Some  ways'll 
All  be  sweet  with  white  and  blue  violet. 

{Hush  now,  hush.     Where  am  If  —  Biuret  — ) 

On  the  green  wood's  edge  a  shy  girl  hovers 
From  out  of  the  hazel-screen  on  to  the  grass, 
Where  wheeling  and  screaming  the  petulant  plovers 
Wave  frighted.     Who  comes  ?     A  labourer,  alas ! 
Oh  the  sunset  swims  in  her  eyes'  swift  pool. 
{Work,  work,  you  fool I) 

Somewhere  the  lamp  hanging  low  from  the  ceiling 
Lights  the  soft  hair  of  a  girl  as  she  reads, 
And  the  red  firelight  steadily  wheeling 
Weaves  the  hard  hands  of  my  friend  in  sleep. 
And  the  white  dog  snuffs  the  warmth,  appealing 
For  the  man  to  heed  lest  the  girl  shall  weep. 

[6] 


STUDY 

( Tears  and  dreams  for  them;  for  me 
Bitter  science  —  the  exams,  are  near. 
I  wish  I  bore  it  more  patiently. 
I  wish  you  did  not  wait,  my  dear, 
For  me  to  come:  since  work  I  must: 
Though  i/s  all  the  same  when  we  are  dead. 
I  wish  I  was  only  a  bust, 
All  head.) 


[  7  ] 


DISCORD  IN  CHILDHOOD 

Outside  the  house  an  ash-tree  hung  its  terrible 

whips, 
And  at  night  when  the  wind  arose,  the  lash  of  the  tree 
Shrieked  and  slashed  the  wind,  as  a  ship's 
Weird  rigging  in  a  storm  shrieks  hideously. 

Within  the  house  two  voices  arose  in  anger,  a  slender 

lash 
Whistling  delirious  rage,  and  the  dreadful  sound 
Of   a    thick   lash   booming   and   bruising,    until   it 

drowned 
The  other  voice  in  a  silence  of  blood,  'neath  the  noise 

of  the  ash. 


[  S] 


VIRGIN  YOUTH 

Now  and  again 

All  my  body  springs  alive, 

And  the  life  that  is  polarised  in  my  eyes, 

That  quivers  between  my  eyes  and  mouth, 

Flies  like  a  wild  thing  across  my  body, 

Leaving  my  eyes  half-empty,  and  clamorous. 

Filling  my  still  breasts  with  a  flush  and  a  flame. 

Gathering  the  soft  ripples  below  my  breasts 

Into  urgent,  passionate  waves, 

And  my  soft,  slumbering  belly 

Quivering  awake  with  one  impulse  of  desire. 

Gathers  itself  fiercely  together; 

And  my  docile,  fluent  arms 

Knotting  themselves  with  wild  strength 

To  clasp  —  what  they  have  never  clasped. 

Then  I  tremble,  and  go  trembling 

Under  the  wild,  strange  tyranny  of  my  body. 

Till  it  has  spent  itself. 

And  the  relentless  nodality  of  my  eyes  reasserts  itself. 

Till  the  bursten  flood  of  life  ebbs  back  to  my  eyes, 

Back  from  my  beautiful,  lonely  body 

Tired  and  unsatisfied. 

[9] 


MONOLOGUE  OF  A  MOTHER 

This  is  the  last  of  all,  this  is  the  last ! 
I  must  hold  my  hands,  and  turn  my  face  to  the  fire, 
I  must  watch  my  dead  days  fusing  together  in  dross. 
Shape  after  shape,  and  scene  after  scene  from  my  past 
Fusing  to  one  dead  mass  in  the  sinking  fire 
Where  the  ash  on  the  dying  coals  grows  swiftly,  like 
heavy  moss. 

Strange  he  is,  my  son,  whom  I  have  awaited  like  a 

lover. 
Strange  to  me  like  a  captive  in  a  foreign  country, 

haunting 
The  confines  and  gazing  out  on  the  land  where  the 

wind  is  free; 
White  and  gaunt,  with  wistful  eyes  that  hover 
Always  on  the  distance,  as  if  his  soul  were  chaunting 
The  monotonous  weird  of  departure  away  from  me. 

Like  a  strange  white  bird  blown  out  of  the  frozen 

seas. 
Like  a  bird  from  the  far  north  blown  with  a  broken 

wing 

[10] 


MONOLOGUE  OF  A  MOTHER 

Into  our  sooty  garden,  he  drags  and  beats 
From  place  to  place  perpetually,  seeking  release 
From  me,  from  the  hand  of  my  love  which  creeps  up, 

needing 
His  happiness,  whilst  he  in  displeasure  retreats. 

I  must  look  away  from  him,  for  my  faded  eyes 
Like  a  cringing  dog  at  his  heels  offend  him  now. 
Like  a  toothless  hound  pursuing  him  with  my  will. 
Till  he  chafes  at  my  crouching  persistence,  and  a 

sharp  spark  flies 
In  my  soul  from  under  the  sudden  frown  of  his  brow, 
As  he  blenches  and  turns  away,  and  my  heart  stands 

still. 

This  is  the  last,  it  will  not  be  any  more. 
All  my  life  I  have  borne  the  burden  of  myself. 
All  the  long  years  of  sitting  in  my  husband's  house, 
Never  have  I  said  to  myself  as  he  closed  the  door : 
"Now  I  am  caught!  —  You  are  hopelessly  lost,  O 

Self, 
You  are  frightened  with  joy,  my  heart,  like  a  fright- 
ened mouse." 


[a] 


MONOLOGUE  OF  A  MOTHER 

Three  times  have  I  offered  myself,  three  times  re- 
jected. 

It  will  not  be  any  more.     No  more,  my  son,  my  son ! 

Never  to  know  the  glad  freedom  of  obedience,  since 
long  ago 

The  angel  of  childhood  kissed  me  and  went.  I  ex- 
pected 

Another  would  take  me, —  and  now,  my  son,  O  my 
son, 

I  must  sit  awhile  and  wait,  and  never  know 

The  loss  of  myself,  till  death  comes,  who  cannot  fail. 

Death,  in  whose  service  is  nothing  of  gladness,  takes 

me; 
For  the  lips  and  the  eyes  of  God  are  behind  a  veil. 
And  the  thought  of  the  lipless  voice  of  the  Father 

shakes  me 
With  fear,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  the  tears  of  desire, 
And  my  heart  rebels  with  anguish  as  night  draws 

nigher. 


[I2l 


IN  A  BOAT 

See  the  stars,  love, 

In  the  water  much  clearer  and  brighter 
Than  those  above  us,  and  whiter, 
Like  nenuphars.  / 

Star-shadows  shine,  love, 
How  many  stars  in  your  bowl? 
How  many  shadows  in  your  soul, 
Only  mine,  love,  mine? 

When  I  move  the  oars,  love. 
See  how  the  stars  are  tossed. 
Distorted,  the  brightest  lost. 

—  So  that  bright  one  of  yours,  love. 

The  poor  waters  spill 

The  stars,  waters  broken,  forsaken. 

—  The  heavens  are  not  shaken,  you  say,  love, 
Its  stars  stand  still. 


[  13] 


IN  A  BOAT 

There,  did  you  see 

That  spark  fly  up  at  us ;  even 

Stars  are  not  safe  in  heaven. 

—  What  of  yours,  then,  love,  yours? 

What  then,  love,  if  soon 
Your  light  be  tossed  over  a  wave? 
Will  you  count  the  darkness  a  grave. 
And  swoon,  love,  swoon? 


C  u] 


WEEK-NIGHT  SERVICE 

The  five  old  bells 

Are  hurrying  and  eagerly  calling, 

Imploring,  protesting 

They  know,  but  clamorously  falling 

Into  gabbling  incoherence,  never  resting. 

Like  spattering  showers  from  a  bursten  sky-rocket 

dropping 
In  splashes  of  sound,  endlessly,  never  stopping. 

The  silver  moon 

That  somebody  has  spun  so  high 

To  settle  the  question,  yes  or  no,  has  caught 

In  the  net  of  the  night's  balloon, 

And  sits  with  a  smooth  bland  smile  up  there  in 

the  sky 
Smiling  at  naught, 

Unless  the  winking  star  that  keeps  her  company 
Makes  little  jests  at  the  bells'  insanity, 
As  if  he  knew  aught  I 


C  IS] 


WEEK-NIGftT  SERVICE 

The  patient  Night 

Sits  indifferent,  hugged  in  her  rags, 

She  neither  knows  nor  cares 

Why  the  old  church  sobs  and  brags ; 

The  light  distresses  her  eyes,  and  tears 

Her  old  blue  cloak,  as  she  crouches  and  covers  her 

face, 
Smiling,  perhaps,  if  we  knew  it,  at  the  bells'  loud 

clattering  disgrace. 

The  wise  old  trees 

Drop  their  leaves  with  a  faint,  sharp  hiss  of  con- 
tempt, 

While  a  car  at  the  end  of  the  street  goes  by  with  a 
laugh ; 

As  by  degrees 

The  poor  bells  cease,  and  the  Night  is  exempt, 

And  the  stars  can  chaff 

The  ironic  moon  at  their  ease,  while  the  dim  old 
church 

Is  peopled  with  shadows  and  sounds  and  ghosts  that 
lurch 

In  its  cenotaph. 


[  i6] 


IRONY 

Always,  sweetheart, 

Carry  into  your  room  the  blossoming  boughs  of 

cherry, 
Almond  and  apple  and  pear  diffuse  with  light,  that 

very 
Soon  strews  itself  on  the  floor;  and  keep  the  radiance 

of  spring 
Fresh  quivering;  keep  the  sunny-swift  March-days 

waiting 
In  a  little  throng  at  your  door,  and  admit  the  one 

who  is  plaiting 
Her  hair  for  womanhood,  and  play  awhile  with  her, 

then  bid  her  depart. 

A  come  and  go  of  March-day  loves 
Through  the  flower-vine,  trailing  screen; 

A  fluttering  in  of  doves. 
Then  a  launch  abroad  of  shrinking  doves 
Over  the  waste  where  no  hope  is  seen 
Of  open  hands: 

[  17  ] 


IRONY 


Dance  in  and  out 
Small-bosomed  girls  of  the  spring  of  love, 
With  a  bubble  of  laughter,  and  shrilly  shout 
Of  mirth;  then  the  dripping  of  tears  on  your 
glove. 


[  i8  ] 


DREAMS  OLD  AND  NASCENT 

OLD 

I  HAVE  opened  the  window  to  warm  my  hands  on  the 

sin 

Where  the  sunlight  soaks  in  the  stone :  the  afternoon 
Is  full  of  dreams,  my  love,  the  boys  are  all  still 

In  a  wistful  dream  of  Lorna  Doone. 

*. 

The  clink  of  the  shunting  engines  Is  sharp  and  fine, 

Like  savage  music  striking  far  off,  and  there 

On  the  great,  uplifted  blue  palace,  lights  stir  and 

shine 
Where  the  glass  Is  domed  In  the  blue,  soft  air. 

There  lies  the  world,  my  darling,  full'of  wonder  and 

wistfulness  and  strange 
Recognition  and  greetings  of  half-acquaint  things,  as 

I  greet  the  cloud 
Of  blue  palace  aloft  there,  among  misty  Indefinite 

dreams  that  range 
At  the  back  of  my  life's  horizon,  where  the  dream- 

ings  of  past  lives  crowd. 
[  19  ] 


DREAMS  OLD  AND  NASCENT 

Over  the  nearness  of  Norwood  Hill,  through  the 

mellow  veil 
Of  the  afternoon  glows  to  me  the  old  romance  of 

David  and  Dora, 
With  the  old,  sweet,  soothing  tears,  and  laughter 

that  shakes  the  sail 
Of  the  ship  of  the  soul  over  seas  where  dreamed 

dreams  lure  the  unoceaned  explorer. 

All  the  bygone,  hushed  years 

Streaming  back  where  the  mist  distils 

Into  forgetfulness :  soft-sailing  waters  where  fears 

No  longer  shake,  where  the  silk  sail  fills 

With  an  unfelt  breeze  that  ebbs  over  the  seas,  where 

the  storm 
Of  living  has  passed,  on  and  on 
Through  the  coloured  iridescence  that  swims  in  the 

warm 
Wake  of  the  tumult  now  spent  and  gone. 
Drifts  my  boat,  wistfully  lapsing  after 
The  mists  of  vanishing  tears  and  the  echo  of  laughter. 


[  20] 


DREAMS  OLD  AND  NASCENT 

NASCENT 

My  world  Is  a  painted  fresco,  where  coloured  shapes 
Of  old,  Ineffectual  lives  linger  blurred  and  warm; 
An  endless  tapestry  the  past  has  woven  drapes 
The  halls  of  my  life,  compelling  my  soul  to  conform. 

The  surface  of  dreams  is  broken, 

The  picture  of  the  past  is  shaken  and  scattered. 

Fluent,  active  figures  of  men  pass  along  the  railway, 

and  I  am  woken 
From  the  dreams  that  the  distance  flattered. 

Along  the  railway,  active  figures  of  men. 

They  have  a  secret  that  stirs  in  their  limbs  as  they 

move 
Out  of  the  distance,  nearer,  commanding  my  dreamy 

world. 

Here  in  the  subtle,  rounded  flesh 

Beats  the  active  ecstasy. 

In  the  sudden  lifting  my  eyes,  it  is  clearer, 

[  21    ] 


DREAMS  OLD  AND  NASCENT 

The  fascination  of  the  quick,  restless  Creator  moving 

through  the  mesh 
Of  men,  vibrating  in  ecstasy  through  the  rounded 

flesh. 

Oh  my  boys,  bending  over  your  books, 

In  you  is  trembling  and  fusing 

The  creation  of  a  new-patterned  dream,  dream  of  a 

generation : 
And  I  watch  to  see  the  Creator,  the  power  that 

patterns  the  dream. 

The  old  dreams  are  beautiful,  beloved,  soft-toned, 
and  sure. 

But  the  dream-stuff  is  molten  and  moving  mysteri- 
ously. 

Alluring  my  eyes ;  for  I,  am  I  not  also  dream-stuff, 

Am  I  not  quickening,  diffusing  myself  in  the  pattern, 
shaping  and  shapen? 

Here  in  my  class  is  the  answer  for  the  great  yearning : 
Eyes  where  I  can  watch  the  swim  of  old  dreams  re- 
flected on  the  molten  metal  of  dreams. 
Watch  the  stir  which  is  rhythmic  and  moves  them 
all  as  a  heart-beat  moves  the  blood, 

[  22] 


DREAMS  OLD  AND  NASCENT 

Here  in  the  swelling  flesh  the  great  activity  work- 
ing, 

Visible  there  in  the  change  of  eyes  and  the  mobile 
features. 

Oh  the  great  mystery  and  fascination  of  the  unseen 

Shaper, 
The  power  of  the  melting,   fusing  Force  —  heat, 

light,  all  in  one, 
Everything  great  and  mysterious  in  one,  swelling  and 

shaping  the  dream  in  the  flesh. 
As  it  swells  and  shapes  a  bud  into  blossom. 

Oh  the  terrible  ecstasy  of  the  consciousness  that  I 
am  life! 

Oh  the  miracle  of  the  whole,  the  widespread,  labour- 
ing concentration 

Swelling  mankind  like  one  bud  to  bring  forth  the 
fruit  of  a  dream. 

Oh  the  terror  of  lifting  the  innermost  I  out  of  the 
sweep  of  the  impulse  of  life, 

And  watching  the  great  Thing  labouring  through  the 
whole  round  flesh  of  the  world; 

And  striving  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  shape  of  the 
coming  dream, 

[23  ] 


DREAMS  OLD  AND  NASCENT 

As  it  quickens  within  the  labouring,  white-hot  metal, 
Catch  the  scent  and  the  colour  of  the  coming  dream, 
Then  to  fall  back  exhausted  into  the  unconscious, 
molten  life  I 


[24    ] 


A  WINTER'S  TALE 

Yesterday  the  fields  were  only  grey  with  scattered 

snow, 
And  now  the  longest  grass-leaves  hardly  emerge ; 
Yet  her  deep  footsteps  mark  the  snow,  and  go 
On  towards  the  pines  at  the  hills'  white  verge. 

I  cannot  see  her,  since  the  mist's  white  scarf 
Obscures  the  dark  wood  and  the  dull  orange  sky; 
But  she's  waiting,  I  know,  impatient  and  cold,  half 
Sobs  struggling  into  her  frosty  sigh. 

Why  does  she  come  so  promptly,  when  she  must 

know 
That  she's  only  the  nearer  to  the  inevitable  farewell; 
The  hill  is  steep,  on  the  snow  my  steps  are  slow  — 
Why  does  she  come,  when  she  knows  what  I  have  to 

tell? 


[25] 


EPILOGUE 

Patience,  little  Heart. 

One  day  a  heavy,  June-hot  woman 

Will  enter  and  shut  the  door  to  stay. 

And  when  your  stifling  heart  would  summon 

Cool,  lonely  night,  her  roused  breasts  will  keep  the 
night  at  bay, 

Sitting  in  your  room  like  two  tiger-lilies 

Flaming  on  after  sunset, 

Destroying  the  cool,  lonely  night  with  the  glow  of 
their  hot  twilight ; 

There  In  the  morning,  still,  while  the  fierce  strange 
scent  comes  yet 

Stronger,  hot  and  red;  till  you  thirst  for  the  daffo- 
dillies 

With  an  anguished,  husky  thirst  that  you  cannot 
assuage, 

When  the  daffodillies  are  dead,  and  a  woman  of  the 
dog-days  holds  you  in  gage. 

Patience,  little  Heart. 

[26] 


A  BABY  RUNNING  BAREFOOT 

When  the  bare  feet  of  the  baby  beat  across  the  grass 
The  little  white  feet  nod  like  white  flowers  in  the 

wind, 
They  poise  and  run  like  ripples  lapping  across  the 

water; 
And  the  sight  of  their  white  play  among  the  grass 
Is  like  a  little  robin's  song,  winsome. 
Or  as  two  white  butterflies  settle  in  the  cup  of  one 

flower 
For  a  moment,  then  away  with  a  flutter  of  wings. 

I  long  for  the  baby  to  wander  hither  to  me 

Like  a  wind-shadow  wandering  over  the  water. 

So  that  she  can  stand  on  my  knee 

With  her  little  bare  feet  in  my  hands, 

Cool  like  syringa  buds, 

Firm  and  silken  like  pink  young  peony  flowers. 


[  27  ] 


DISCIPLINE 

It  is  stormy,  and  raindrops  cling  like  silver  bees  to 

the  pane, 
The  thin  sycamores  in  the  playground  are  swinging 

with  flattened  leaves; 
The  heads  of  the  boys  move  dimly  through  a  yellow 

gloom  that  stains 
The  class;  over  them  all  the  dark  net  of  my  discipline 

weaves. 

It  is  no  good,  dear,  gentleness  and  forbearance,  I 

endured  too  long. 
I  have  pushed  my  hands  in  the  dark  soil,  under  the 

flower  of  my  soul 
And  the  gentle  leaves,  and  have  felt  where  the  roots 

are  strong 
Fixed  in  the  darkness,  grappling  for  the  deep  soil's 

little  control. 

And  there  is  the  dark,  my  darling,  where  the  roots 

are  entangled  and  fight 
Each  one  for  its  hold  on  the  oblivious  darkness,  I 

know  that  there 

[  28  ] 


DISCIPLINE 

In  the  night  where  we  first  have  being,  before  we  rise 

on  the  light, 
We  are  not  brothers,  my  darling,  we  fight  and  we 

do  not  spare. 

And  in  the  original  dark  the  roots  cannot  keep,  can- 
not know 

Any  communion  whatever,  but  they  bind  themselves 
on  to  the  dark, 

And  drawing  the  darkness  together,  crush  from  it  a 
twilight,  a  slow 

Burning  that  breaks  at  last  into  leaves  and  a  flower's 
bright  spark. 

I  came  to  the  boys  with  love,  my  dear,  but  they 

turned  on  me ; 
I  came  with  gentleness,  with  my  heart  'twixt  my 

hands  like  a  bowl. 
Like   a   loving-cup,   like   a   grail,  but  they  spilt  it 

triumphantly 
And  tried  to  break  the  vessel,  and  to  violate  my 

soul. 

But  what  have  I  to  do  with  the  boys,  deep  down  in 
my  soul,  my  love  ? 

[  29] 


DISCIPLINE 

I  throw  from  out  of  the  darkness  my  self  like  a  flower 

into  sight, 
Like  a  flower  from  out  of  the  night-time,  I  lift  my 

face,  and  those 
Who  will  may  warm  their  hands  at  me,  comfort  this 

night. 

But  whosoever  would  pluck  apart  my  flowering  shall 

burn  their  hands, 
So  flowers  are  tender  folk,  and  roots  can  only  hide. 
Yet  my  flowerings  of  love  are  a  fire,  and  the  scarlet 

brands 
Of  my  love  are  roses  to  look  at,  but  flames  to  chide. 

But  comfort  me,  my  love,  now  the  fires  are  low, 
Now  I  am  broken  to  earth  like  a  winter  destroyed, 

and  all 
Myself  but  a  knowledge  of  roots,  of  roots  in  the  dark 

that  throw 
A  net  on  the  undersoil,  which  lies  passive  beneath 

their  thrall. 

But  comfort  me,  for  henceforth  my  love  is  yours 

alone, 
To  you  alone  will  I  offer  the  bowl,  to  you  will  I  give 
My  essence  only,  but  love  me,  and  I  will  atone 
To  you  for  my  general  loving,  atone  as  long  as  I  live. 

[  30] 


SCENT  OF  IRISES 

A  FAINT,  sickening  scent  of  irises 
Persists  all  morning.     Here  In  a  jar  on  the  table 
A  fine  proud  spike  of  purple  Irises 
Rising  above  the  class-room  litter,  makes  me  unable 
To  see  the  class's  lifted  and  bended  faces 
Save  in  a  broken  pattern,  amid  purple  and  gold  and 
sable. 

I  can  smell  the  gorgeous  bog-end,  in  its  breathless 

Dazzle  of  may-blobs,  when  the  marigold  glare  over- 
cast you 

With  fire  on  your  cheeks  and  your  brow  and  your 
chin  as  you  dipped 

Your  face  in  the  marigold  bunch,  to  touch  and  con- 
trast you. 

Your  own  dark  mouth  with  the  bridal  faint  lady- 
smocks, 

Dissolved  on  the  golden  sorcery  you  should  not 
outlast. 


[31   ] 


SCENT  OF  IRISES 

You  amid  the  bog-end's  yellow  incantation, 
You  sitting  in  the  cowslips  of  the  meadow  above, 
Me,  your  shadow  on  the  bog-flame,  flowery  may- 
blobs. 
Me  full  length  in  the  cowslips,  muttering  you  love ; 
You,  your  soul  like  a  lady-smock,  lost,  evanescent. 
You  with  your  face  all  rich,  like  the  sheen  of  a 
dove. 

You  are  always  asking,  do  I  remember,  remember 
The  butter-cup  bog-end  where  the  flowers  rose  up 
And  kindled  you  over  deep  with  a  cast  of  gold? 
You  ask  again,  do  the  healing  days  close  up 
The  open  darkness  which  then  drew  us  in. 
The  dark  which  then  drank  up  our  brimming  cup. 

You  upon  the  dry,  dead  beech-leaves,  in  the  fire  of 

night 
Burnt  like  a  sacrifice;  you  invisible; 
Only  the  fire  of  darkness,  and  the  scent  of  you  I 
—  And  yes,  thank  God,  it  still  is  possible 
The  healing  days  shall  close  the  darkness  up 
Wherein  we  fainted  like  a  smoke  or  dew. 


[32] 


SCENT  OF  IRISES 

Like  vapour,  dew,  or  poison.     Now,  thank  God, 
The  fire  of  night  is  gone,  and  your  face  is  ash 
Indistinguishable  on  the  grey,  chili  day; 
The  night  has  burnt  us  out,  at  last  the  good 
Dark  fire  burns  on  untroubled,  without  clash 
Of  you  upon  the  dead  leaves  saying  me  Yea. 


[  33  ] 


THE  PROPHET 

Ah,  my  darling,  when  over  the  purple  horizon  shall 

loom 
The  shrouded  mother  of  a  new  idea,  men  hide  their 

faces, 
Cry  out  and  fend  her  off,  as  she  seeks  her  procreant 

groom. 
Wounding    themselves    against    her,    denying    her 

fecund  embraces. 


[  34] 


LAST  WORDS  TO  MIRIAM 

Yours  Is  the  shame  and  sorrow 

But  the  disgrace  Is  mine; 
Your  love  was  dark  and  thorough, 
Mine  was  the  love  of  the  sun  for  a  flower 

He  creates  with  his  shine. 

I  was  diligent  to  explore  you, 

Blossom  you  stalk  by  stalk, 
Till  my  fire  of  creation  bore  you 
Shrivelling  down  in  the  final  dour 

Anguish  —  then  I  suffered  a  balk. 

I  knew  your  pain,  and  it  broke 

My  fine,  craftsman's  nerve; 
Your  body  quailed  at  my  stroke. 
And  my  courage  failed  to  give  you  the  last 

Fine  torture  you  did  deserve. 

You  are  shapely,  you  are  adorned, 
But  opaque  and  dull  In  the  flesh, 
Who,  had  I  but  pierced  with  the  thorned 

[  35  ] 


LAST  WORDS  TO  MIRIAM 

Fire-threshing  anguish,  were  fused  and  cast 
In  a  lovely  illumined  mesh. 

Like  a  painted  window:  the  best 

Suffering  burnt  through  your  flesh, 
Undrossed  it  and  left  it  blest 

With    a    quivering   sweet    wisdom    of   grace:    but 
now 

Who  shall  take  you  afresh? 

Now  who  will  burn  you  free 

From  your  body's  terrors  and  dross, 
Since  the  fire  has  failed  in  me  ? 
What  man  will  stoop  in  your  flesh  to  plough 

The  shrieking  cross? 

A  mute,  nearly  beautiful  thing 

Is  your  face,  that  fills  me  with  shame 

As  I  see  it  hardening, 

Warping  the  perfect  image  of  God, 
And  darkening  my  eternal  fame. 


[  36  ] 


MYSTERY 

Now  I  am  all 
One  bowl  of  kisses, 
Such  as  the  tall 
Slim  votaresses 
Of  Egypt  filled 
For  a  God's  excesses. 

I  lift  to  you 

My  bowl  of  kisses, 

And  through  the  temple's 

Blue  recesses 

Cry  out  to  you 

In  wild  caresses. 

And  to  my  lips' 
Bright  crimson  rim 
The  passion  slips, 
And  down  my  slim 
White  body  drips 
The  shining  hymn. 

[  Z7  ] 


MYSTERY 

And  still  before 

The  altar  I 

Exult  the  bowl 

Brimful,  and  cry 

To  you  to  stoop 

And  drink,  Most  High. 

Oh  drink  me  up 
That  I  may  be 
Within  your  cup 
Like  a  mystery, 
Like  wine  that  is  still 
In  ecstasy. 

Glimmering  still 
In  ecstasy, 
Commingled  wines 
Of  you  and  me 
In  one  fulfil 
The  mystery. 


[  38  ] 


PATIENCE 

A  WIND  comes  from  the  north 

Blowing  little  flocks  of  birds 

Like  spray  across  the  town, 

And  a  train,  roaring  forth. 

Rushes  stampeding  down 

With  cries  and  flying  curds 

Of  steam,  out  of  the  darkening  north. 

Whither  I  turn  and  set 
Like  a  needle  steadfastly, 
Waiting  ever  to  get 
The  news  that  she  is  free ; 
But  ever  fixed,  as  yet. 
To  the  lode  of  her  agony. 


[  39  ] 


BALLAD  OF  ANOTHER  OPHELIA 

Oh  the  green  glimmer  of  apples  in  the  orchard, 
Lamps  in  a  wash  of  rain! 

Oh  the  wet  walk  of  my  brown  hen  through  the  stack- 
yard, 
Oh  tears  on  the  window  pane! 

Nothing  now  will  ripen  the  bright  green  apples, 

Full  of  disappointment  and  of  rain, 

Brackish  they  will  taste,  of  tears,  when  the  yellow 

dapples 
Of  autumn  tell  the  withered  tale  again. 

All  round  the  yard  it  is  cluck,  my  brown  hen, 
Cluck,  and  the  rain-wet  wings. 
Cluck,  my  marigold  bird,  and  again 
Cluck  for  your  yellow  darlings. 

For  the  grey  rat  found  the  gold  thirteen 

Huddled  away  in  the  dark. 

Flutter  for  a  moment,  oh  the  beast  is  quick  and 

keen. 
Extinct  one  yellow-fluffy  spark. 

[  40  ] 


BALLAD  OF  ANOTHER  OPHELIA 

Once  I  had  a  lover  bright  like  running  water, 
Once  his  face  was  laughing  like  the  sky ; 
Open  like  the  sky  looking  down  in  all  its  laughter 
On  the  buttercups,  and  the  buttercups  was  L 

What,  then,  is  there  hidden  in  the  skirts  of  all  the 

blossom  ? 
What    is    peeping    from    your    wings,    oh    mother 

hen? 
'Tis  the  sun  who  asks  the  question,  in  a  lovely  h'aste 

for  wisdom; 
What  a  lovely  haste  for  wisdom  is  in  men  I 

Vea,  but  it  Is  cruel  when  undressed  is  all  the  blossom, 

And  her  shift  is  lying  white  upon  the  floor, 

That  a  grey  one,  like  a  shadow,  like  a  rat,  a  thief,  a 

rain-storm. 
Creeps  upon  her  then  and  gathers  in  his  store. 

Oh  the  grey  garner  that  is  full  of  half-grown  apples, 

Oh  the  golden  sparkles  laid  extinct! 

And  oh,  behind  the  cloud-sheaves,  like  yellow  autumn 

dapples. 
Did  you  see  the  wicked  sun  that  winked  I 

[41] 


RESTLESSNESS 

At  the  open  door  of  the  room  I  stand  and  look  at 

the  night, 
Hold  my  hand  to  catch  the  raindrops,  that  slant  into 

sight, 
Arriving  grey  from  the  darkness  above  suddenly  into 

the  light  of  the  room. 
I  will  escape  from  the  hollow  room,  the  box  of  light. 
And  be  out  in  the  bewildering  darkness,  which  is 

always  fecund,  which  might 
Mate  my  hungry  soul  with  a  germ  of  Its  womb. 

I  will  go  out  to  the  night,  as  a  man  goes  down  to  the 

shore 
To  draw  his  net  through  the  surfs  thin  line,  at  the 

dawn  before 
The  sun  warms  the  sea,  little,  lonely  and  sad,  sifting 

the  sobbing  tide. 
I  will  sift  the  surf  that  edges  the  night,  with  my  net, 

the  four 
Strands  of  my  eyes  and  my  lips  and  my  hands  and  my 

feet,  sifting  the  store 
Of  flotsam  until  my  loul  is  tired  or  satiified. 

[4a] 


RESTLESSNESS 

I  will  catch  in  my  eyes'  quick  net 
The  faces  of  all  the  women  as  they  go  past, 
Bend  over  them  with  my  soul,  to  cherish  the  wet 
Cheeks  and  wet  hair  a  moment,  saying:     "  Is  it 

you?" 
Looking  earnestly  under  the  dark  umbrellas,  held 

fast 
Against   the   wind;    and   If,    where   the   lamplight 

blew 
Its  rainy  swill  about  us,  she  answered  me 
With  a  laugh  and  a  merry  wlldness  that  It  was  she 
Who  was  seeking  me,  and  had  found  me  at  last  to 

free 
Me  now  from  the  stunting  bonds  of  my  chastity. 
How  glad  I  should  be ! 

Moving  along  In  the  mysterious  ebb  of  the  night 
Pass  the  men  whose  eyes  are  shut  like  anemones  in  a 

dark  pool; 
Why  don't  they  open  with  vision  and  speak  to  me, 

what  have  they  In  sight? 
Why  do  I  wander  aimless  among  them,  desirous 

fool? 


[  43  ] 


RESTLESSNESS 

I  can  always  linger  over  the  huddled  books  on  the 
stalls, 

Always  gladden  my  amorous  fingers  with  the  touch 
of  their  leaves, 

Always  kneel  in  courtship  to  the  shelves  in  the  door- 
ways, where  falls 

The  shadow,  always  offer  myself  to  one  mistress, 
who  always  receives. 

But  oh,  it  is  not  enough,  it  is  all  no  good. 

There  is  something  I  want  to  feel  in  my  running 

blood. 
Something  I  want  to  touch;  I  must  hold  my  face  to 

the  rain, 
I  must  hold  my  face  to  the  wind,  and  let  it  explain 
Me  its  life  as  it  hurries  in  secret. 
I  will  trail  my  hands  again  through  the  drenched, 

cold  leaves 
Till  my  hands  are  full  of  the  chillness  and  touch  of 

leaves, 
Till  at  length  they  induce  me  to  sleep,  and  to  forget. 


[  44  ] 


A  BABY  ASLEEP  AFTER  PAIN 

As  a  drenched,  drowned  bee 
Hangs  numb  and  heavy  from  a  bending  flower, 

So  clings  to  me 
My  baby,  her  brown  hair  brushed  with  wet  tears 

And  laid  against  her  cheek; 
Her  soft  white  legs  hanging  heavily  over  my  arm 
Swinging  heavily  to  my  movement  as  I  walk. 

My  sleeping  baby  hangs  upon  my  life, 
Like  a  burden  she  hangs  on  me. 

She  has  always  seemed  so  light, 
But  now  she  is  wet  with  tears  and  numb  with  pain 
Even  her  floating  hair  sinks  heavily. 

Reaching  downwards; 
As  the  wings  of  a  drenched,  drowned  bee 

Are  a  heaviness,  and  a  weariness. 


[45  ] 


ANXIETY 

The  hoar-frost  crumbles  in  the  sun, 
The  crisping  steam  of  a  train 

Melts  in  the  air,  while  two  black  birds 
Sweep  past  the  window  again. 

Along  the  vacant  road,  a  red 
Bicycle  approaches;  I  wait 

In  a  thaw  of  anxiety,  for  the  boy 
To  leap  down  at  our  gate. 

He  has  passed  us  by;  but  is  it 
Relief  that  starts  In  my  breast? 

Or  a  deeper  bruise  of  knowing  that  still 
She  has  no  rest. 


C46] 


THE  PUNISHEli 

I  HAVE  fetched  the  tears  up  out  of  the  little  wells, 
Scooped  them  up  with  small,  iron  words, 
Dripping  over  the  runnels. 

The  harsh,  cold  wind  of  my  words  drove  on,  and  still 
I  watched  the  tears  on  the  guilty  cheek  of  the  boys 
Glitter  and  spill. 

Cringing  Pity,  and  Love,  white-handed,  came 
Hovering  about  the  Judgment  which  stood  in  my 
eyes. 
Whirling  a  flame. 


The  tears  are  dry,  and  the  cheeks'  young  fruits  are 

fresh 
With  laughter,  and  clear  the  exonerated  eyes,  since 
pain 
Beat  through  the  flesh. 

[  47  ] 


THE  PUNISHER 

The  Angel  of  Judgment  has  departed  again  to  the 

Nearness. 
Desolate  I  am  as  a  church  whose  lights  are  put  out. 
And  night  enters  in  drearness. 

The  fire  rose  up  in  the  bush  and  blazed  apace, 
The  thorn-leaves  crackled  and  twisted  and  sweated  in 
anguish; 
Then  God  left  the  place. 

Like  a  flower  that  the  frost  has  hugged  and  let  go, 

my  head 
Is  heavy,  and  my  heart  beats  slowly,  laboriously, 
My  strength  is  shed. 


[48] 


THE  END 

If  I  could  have  put  you  in  my  heart, 
If  but  I  could  have  wrapped  you  in  myself, 
How  glad  I  should  have  been ! 
And  now  the  chart 
Of  memory  unrolls  again  to  me 
The  course  of  our  journey  here,  before  we  had  to 
part. 

And  oh,  that  you  had  never,  never  been 
Some  of  your  selves,  my  love,  that  some 
Of  your  several  faces  I  had  never  seen ! 
And  still  they  come  before  me,  and  they  go. 
And    I    cry    aloud    in    the    moments    that    inter- 
vene. 

And  oh,  my  love,  as  I  rock  for  you  to-night, 
And  have  not  any  longer  any  hope 
To  heal  the  suffering,  or  make  requite 
For  all  your  life  of  asking  and  despair, 
I  own  that  some  of  me  is  dead  to-night. 

[  49  ] 


THE  BRIDE 

My  love  looks  like  a  girl  to-night, 

But  she  is  old. 
The  plaits  that  lie  along  her  pillow 

Are  not  gold, 
But  threaded  with  filigree, 

And  uncanny  cold. 

She  looks  like  a  young  maiden,  since  her  brow 

Is  smooth  and  fair, 
Her  cheeks  are  very  smooth,  her  eyes  are  closed, 

She  sleeps  a  rare 
Still  winsome  sleep,  so  still,  and  so  composed. 

Nay,  but  she  sleeps  like  a  bride,  and  dreams  her 
V  dreams 

Of  perfect  things. 
She  lies  at  last,  the  darling,  in  the  shape  of  her  dream, 

And  her  dead  mouth  sings 
By  its  shape,  like  the  thrushes  in  clear  evenings. 


[  5d] 


THE  VIRGIN  MOTHER 

My  little  love,  my  darling, 

You  were  a  doorway  to  me; 

You  let  me  out  of  the  confines 

Into  this  strange  countrie, 

Where  people  are  crowded  like  thistles. 

Yet  are  shapely  and  comely  to  see. 

My  little  love,  my  dearest 

Twice  have  you  issued  me, 

Once  from  your  womb,  sweet  mother, 

Once  from  myself,  to  be 

Free  of  all  hearts,  my  darling. 

Of  each  heart's  home-life  free. 

And  so,  my  love,  my  mother, 
I  shall  always  be  true  to  you; 
Twice  I  am  born,  my  dearest. 
To  life,  and  to  death,  in  you; 
And  this  is  the  life  hereafter 
Wherein  I  am  true. 

[  51  ] 


THE  VIRGIN  MOTHER 

I  kiss  you  good-bye,  my  darling, 

Our  ways  are  different  now; 

You  are  a  seed  in  the  night-time, 

I  am  a  man,  to  plough 

The  difficult  glebe  of  the  future 

For  God  to  endow. 

I  kiss  you  good-bye,  my  dearest, 
It  is  finished  between  us  here. 
Oh,  if  I  were  calm  as  you  are, 
Sweet  and  still  on  your  bier! 

0  God,  if  I  had  not  to  leave  you 
Alone,  my  dear! 

Let  the  last  word  be  uttered. 
Oh  grant  the  farewell  is  said  I 
Spare  me  the  strength  to  leave  you 
Now  you  are  dead. 

1  must  go,  but  my  soul  lies  helpless 
Beside  your  bed. 


[  52   ] 


AT  THE  WINDOW 

The  pine-trees  bend  to  listen  to  the  autumn  wind 

as  it  mutters 
Something  which  sets  the  black  poplars  ashake  with 

hysterical  laughter; 
While  slowly  the  house  of  day  is  closing  its  eastern 

shutters. 

Further  down  the  valley  the  clustered  tombstones 
recede, 

Winding  about  their  dimness  the  mist*s  grey  cere- 
ments, after 

The  street  lamps  In  the  darkness  have  suddenly 
started  to  bleed. 

The  leaves  fly  over  the  window  and  utter  a  word  as 
they  pass 

To  the  face  that  leans  from  the  darkness,  intent,  with 
two  dark-filled  eyes 

That  watch  for  ever  earnestly  from  behind  the  win- 
dow glass. 

[53  ] 


DRUNK 

Too  far  away,  oh  love,  I  know. 
To  save  me  from  this  haunted  road, 
Whose  lofty  roses  break  and  blow 
On  a  night-sky  bent  with  a  load 

Of  lights:  each  solitary  rose. 
Each  arc-lamp  golden  does  expose 
Ghost  beyond  ghost  of  a  blossom,  shows 
Night  blenched  with  a  thousand  snows. 

Of  hawthorn  and  of  lilac  trees. 
White  lilac;  shows  discoloured  night 
Dripping  with  all  the  golden  lees 
Laburnum  gives  back  to  light. 

And  shows  the  red  of  hawthorn  set 
On  high  to  the  purple  heaven  of  night. 
Like  flags  in  blenched  blood  newly  wet. 
Blood  shed  in  the  noiseless  fight. 


[54] 


DRUNK 

Of  life  for  love  and  love  for  life, 
Of  hunger  for  a  little  food, 
Of  kissing,  lost  for  want  of  a  wife 
Long  ago,  long  ago  wooed. 
•  •  •  •  •  • 

Too  far  away  you  are,  my  love, 
To  steady  my  brain  in  this  phantom  show 
That  passes  the  nightly  road  above 
And  returns  again  below. 

The  enormous  cliff  of  horse-chestnut  trees 

Has  poised  on  each  of  its  ledges 
An  erect  small  girl  looking  down  at  me; 
White-night-gowned  little  chits  I  see. 

And  they  peep  at  me  over  the  edges 
Of  the  leaves  as  though  they  would  leap,  should 
I  call 

Them  down  to  my  arms ; 
"  But,  child,  you're  too  small  for  me,  too  small 

Your  little  charms." 

White  little  sheaves  of  night-gowned  maids, 

Some  other  will  thresh  you  out ! 
And  I  see  leaning  from  the  shades 
A  lilac  like  a  lady  there,  who  braids 

Her  white  mantilla  about 
[55  ] 


DRUNK 

Her  face,  and  forward  leans  to  catch  the  sight 

Of  a  man's  face, 
Gracefully  sighing  through  the  white 

Flowery  mantilla  of  lace. 

And  another  lilac  in  purple  veiled 

Discreetly,  all  recklessly  calls 
In  a  low,  shocking  perfume,  to  know  who  has  hailed 
Her  forth  from  the  night :  my  strength  has  failed 

In  her  voice,  my  weak  heart  falls : 
Oh,  and  see  the  laburnum  shimmering 

Her  draperies  down, 
As  if  she  would  slip  the  gold,  and  glimmering 
White,  stand  naked  of  gown. 


The  pageant  of  flowery  trees  above 
The  street  pale-passionate  goes. 

And  back  again  down  the  pavement.  Love 
In  a  lesser  pageant  flows. 

Two  and  two  are  the  folk  that  walk, 

They  pass  in  a  half  embrace 
Of  linked  bodies,  and  they  talk 

With  dark  face  leaning  to  face. 
[56] 


DRUNK 

Come  then,  my  love,  come  as  you  will 

Along  this  haunted  road, 
Be  whom  you  will,  my  darling,  I  shall 

Keep  with  you  the  troth  I  trowed. 


[  57  ] 


SORROW 

Why  does  the  thin  grey  strand 
Floating  up  from  the  forgotten 
Cigarette  between  my  fingers, 
Why  does  it  trouble  me? 

Ah,  you  will  understand; 
When  I  carried  my  mother  downstairs, 
A  few  times  only,  at  the  beginning 
Of  her  soft-foot  malady, 

I  should  find,  for  a  reprimand 

To  my  gaiety,  a  few  long  grey  hairs 

On  the  breast  of  my  coat;  and  one  by  one 

I  let  them  float  up  the  dark  chimney. 


[58] 


DOLOR  OF  AUTUMN 

The  acrid  scents  of  autumn, 
Reminiscent  of  slinking  beasts,  make  me  fear 
Everything,  tear-trembling  stars  of  autumn 
And  the  snore  of  the  night  in  my  ear. 

For  suddenly,  flush-fallen, 
All  my  life,  in  a  rush 
Of  shedding  away,  has  left  me 
Naked,  exposed  on  the  bush. 

I,  on  the  bush  of  the  globe. 
Like  a  newly-naked  berry,  shrink 
Disclosed:  but  I  also  am  prowling 
As  well  in  the  scents  that  slink 

Abroad :  I  in  this  naked  berry 
Of  flesh  that  stands  dismayed  on  the  bush; 
And  I  in  the  stealthy,  brindled  odours 
Prowling  about  the  lush 


[  59  ] 


DOLOR  OF  AUTUMN 

And  acrid  night  of  autumn ; 
My  soul,  along  with  the  rout, 
Rank  and  treacherous,  prowling. 
Disseminated  out. 

For  the  night,  with  a  great  breath  intaken. 
Has  taken  my  spirit  outside 
Me,  till  I  reel  with  disseminated  consciousness, 
Like  a  man  who  has  died. 

At  the  same  time  I  stand  exposed 
Here  on  the  bush  of  the  globe, 
A  newly-naked  berry  of  flesh 
For  the  stars  to  probe. 


[  60] 


THE  INHERITANCE 

Since  you  did  depart 

Out  of  my  reach,  my  darling, 

Into  the  hidden, 

I  see  each  shadow  start 

With  recognition,  and  I 

Am  wonder-ridden. 

I  am  dazed  with  the  farewell, 
But  I  scarcely  feel  your  loss. 
You  left  me  a  gift 
Of  tongues,  so  the  shadows  tell 
Me  things,  and  silences  toss 
Me  their  drift. 

You  sent  me  a  cloven  fire 

Out  of  death,  and  it  bums  in  the  draught 

Of  the  breathing  hosts, 

Kindles  the  darkening  pyre 

For  the  sorrowful,  till  strange  brands  waft 

Like  candid  ghosts. 

[6i  3 


THE  INHERITANCE 

Form  after  form,  in  the  streets 

Waves  like  a  ghost  along, 

Kindled  to  me; 

The  star  above  the  house-top  greets 

Me  every  eve  with  a  long 

Song  fierily. 

All  day  long,  the  town 
Glimmers  with  subtle  ghosts 
Going  up  and  down 
In  a  common,  prison-like  dress; 
But  their  daunted  looking  flickers 
To  me,  and  I  answer.  Yes  I 

So  I  am  not  lonely  nor  sad 

Although  bereaved  of  you, 

My  little  love. 

I  move  among  a  kinsfolk  clad 

With  words,  but  the  dream  shows  through 

As  they  move. 


[62] 


SILENCE 

Since  I  lost  you  I  am  silence-haunted, 
Sounds  wave  their  little  wings 

A  moment,  then  In  weariness  settle 
On  the  flood  that  soundless  swings. 

Whether  the  people  in  the  street 
Like  pattering  ripples  go  by. 

Or  whether  the  theatre  sighs  and  sighs 
With  a  loud,  hoarse  sigh: 

Or  the  wind  shakes  a  ravel  of  light 

Over  the  dead-black  river. 
Or  night's  last  echoing 

Makes  the  daybreak  shiver: 

I  feel  the  silence  waiting 

To  take  them  all  up  again 
In  its  vast  completeness,  enfolding 

The  sound  of  men. 


[  63  ] 


LISTENING 

I  LISTEN  to  the  stillness  of  you, 

My  dear,  among  it  all ; 
I  feel  your  silence  touch  my  words  as  I  talk, 

And  take  them  in  thrall. 

My  words  fly  off  a  forge 

The  length  of  a  spark; 
I  see  the  night-sky  easily  sip  them 

Up  in  the  dark. 

The  lark  sings  loud  and  glad, 

Yet  I  am  not  loth 
That  silence  should  take  the  song  and  the  bird 

And  lose  them  both. 

A  train  goes  roaring  south, 
.    The  steam-flag  flying; 
I  see  the  stealthy  shadow  of  silence 
Alongside  going. 


[643 


LISTENING 

And  off  the  forge  of  the  world, 
Whirling  in  the  draught  of  life, 

Go  sparks  of  myriad  people,  filling 
The  night  with  strife. 

Yet  they  never  change  the  darkness 
Or  blench  it  with  noise; 

Alone  on  the  perfect  silence 
The  stars  are  buoys. 


[  65  ] 


BROODING  GRIEF 

A  YELLOW  leaf  from  the  darkness 

Hops  like  a  frog  before  me. 

Why  should  I  start  and  stand  still? 

I  was  watching  the  woman  that  bore  me 

Stretched  in  the  brindled  darkness 

Of  the  sick-room,  rigid  with  will 

To  die :  and  the  quick  leaf  tore  me 

Back  to  this  rainy  swill 

Of  leaves  and  lamps  and  traffic  mingled  before  me. 


[66] 


LOTUS  HURT  BY  THE  COLD 

How  many  times,  like  lotus  lilies  risen 
Upon  the  surface  of  a  river,  there 
Have  risen  floating  on  my  blood  the  rare 

Soft  glimmers  of  my  hope  escaped  from  prison. 

So  I  am  clothed  all  over  with  the  light 

And  sensitive  beautiful  blossoming  of  passion; 
Till  naked  for  her  in  the  finest  fashion 

The  flowers  of  all  my  mud  swim  into  sight. 

And  then  I  offer  all  myself  unto 

This  woman  who  likes  to  love  me :  but  she  turns 
A  look  of  hate  upon  the  flower  that  burns 

To  break  and  pour  her  out  its  precious  dew. 

And  slowly  all  the  blossom  shuts  in  pain. 
And  all  the  lotus  buds  of  love  sink  over 
To  die  unopened :  when  my  moon-faced  lover, 

Kind  on  the  weight  of  suffering,  smiles  again. 


[67] 


MALADE 

The  sick  grapes  on  the  chair  by  the  bed  lie  prone; 

at  the  window 
The  tassel  of  the  blind  swings  gently,  tapping  the 

pane, 
As  a  little  wind  comes  in. 

The  room  is  the  hollow  rind  of  a  fruit,  a  gourd 
Scooped  out  and  dry,  where  a  spider, 
Folded  in  its  legs  as  in  a  bed, 
Lies  on  the  dust,  watching  where  is  nothing  to  see 

but  twilight  and  walls. 

And  if  the  day  outside  were  mine !     What  is  the  day 
But   a    grey   cave,    with    great   grey    spider-cloths 

hanging 
Low  from  the  roof,  and  the  wet  dust  falling  softly 

from  them 
Over  the  wet  dark  rocks,  the  houses,  and  over 
The  spiders  with  white  faces,  that  scuttle  on  the 

floor  of  the  cave ! 
I  am  choking  with  creeping,  grey  confinedness. 

[68] 


MALADE 

But  somewhere  birds,  beside  a  lake  of  light,  spread 

wings 
Larger  than  the  largest  fans,  and  rise  in  a  stream 

upwards 
And  upwards  on  the  sunlight  that  rains  invisible. 
So  that  the  birds  are  like  one  wafted  feather, 
Small   and  ecstatic  suspended  over  a  vast  spread 

country. 


[69  ] 


LIAISON 

A  BIG  bud  of  moon  hangs  out  of  the  twilight, 

Star-spiders  spinning  their  thread 
Hang  high  suspended,  withouten  respite 

Watching  us  overhead. 

Come  then  under  the  trees,  where  the  leaf-cloths 

Curtain  us  in  so  dark 
That  here  we're  safe  from  even  the  ermln-moth's 

Flitting  remark. 

Here  In  this  swarthy,  secret  tent, 

Where  black  boughs  flap  the  ground, 

You  shall  draw  the  thorn  from  my  discontent, 
Surgeon  me  sound. 

This  rare,  rich  night !     For  in  here 

Under  the  yew-tree  tent 
The  darkness  Is  loveliest  where  I  could  sear 

You  like  frankincense  into  scent. 


[  70] 


LIAISON 

Here  not  even  the  stars  can  spy  us, 

Not  even  the  white  moths  write 
With  their  little  pale  signs  on  the  wall,  to  try  us 

And  set  us  affright. 

Kiss  but  then  the  dust  from  off  my  lips, 

But  draw  the  turgid  pain 
From  my  breast  to  your  bosom,  eclipse 

My  soul  again. 

Waste  me  not,  I  beg  you,  waste 

Not  the  inner  night : 
Taste,  oh  taste  and  let  me  taste 

The  core  of  delight. 


[  71  ] 


TROTH  WITH  THE  DEAD 

The  moon  is  broken  in  twain,  and  half  a  moon 
Before  me  lies  on  the  still,  pale  floor  of  the  sky; 
The  other  half  of  the  broken  coin  of  troth 
Is  buried  away  in  the  dark,  where  the  still  dead  lie. 
They  buried  her  half  in  the  grave  when  they  laid  her 

away ; 
I  had  pushed  it  gently  in  among  the  thick  of  her  hair 
Where  it  gathered  towards  the  plait,  on  that  very 

last  day; 
And  like  a  moon  in  secret  it  is  shining  there. 

My  half  shines  in  the  sky,  for  a  general  sign 
Of  the  troth  with  the  dead  I  pledged  myself  to  keep ; 
Turning  its  broken  edge  to  the  dark,  it  shines  indeed 
Like  the  sign  of  a  lover  who  turns  to  the  dark  of 

sleep. 
Against  my  heart  the  inviolate  sleep  breaks  still 
In  darkened  waves  whose  breaking  echoes  o'er 
The  wondering  world  of  my  wakeful  day,  till  I'm 

lost 
In  the  midst  of  the  places  I  knew  so  well  before. 

[  72] 


DISSOLUTE 

Many  years  have  I  still  to  burn,  detained 
Like  a  candle  flame  on  this  body;  but  I  enshrine 
A  darkness  within  me,  a  presence  which  sleeps  con- 
tained 
In  my  flame  of  living,  her  soul  enfolded  in  mine. 

And  through  these  years,  while  I  burn  on  the  fuel  of 

life, 
What  matter  the  stuff  I  lick  up  in  my  living  flame, 
Seeing  I  keep  in  the  fire-core,  inviolate, 
A  night  where  she  dreams  my  dreams  for  me,  ever 

the  same. 


[  73  ] 


SUBMERGENCE 

When  along  the  pavement, 
Palpitating  flames  of  life, 
People  flicker  round  me, 
I  forget  my  bereavement, 
The  gap  in  the  great  constellation, 
The  place  where  a  star  used  to  be. 

Nay,  though  the  pole-star 

Is  blown  out  like  a  candle. 

And  all  the  heavens  are  wandering  in  disarray, 

Yet  when  pleiads  of  people  are 

Deployed  around  me,  and  I  see 

The  street's  long  outstretched  Milky  Way, 

When  people  flicker  down  the  pavement, 
I  forget  my  bereavement. 


[  74  ] 


THE  ENKINDLED  SPRING 

This  spring  as  it  comes  bursts  up  in  bonfires  green, 
Wild  puffing  of  emerald  trees,  and  flame-filled  bushes, 
Thorn-blossom  lifting  in  wreaths  of  smoke  between 
Where  the  wood  fumes  up  and  the  watery,  flickering 
rushes. 

I  am  amazed  at  this  spring,  this  conflagration 
Of  green  fires  lit  on  the  soil  of  the  earth,  this  blaze 
Of  growing,  and  sparks  that  puff  in  wild  gyration, 
Faces  of  people  streaming  across  my  gaze. 

And  I,  what  fountain  of  fire  am  I  among 

This  leaping  combustion  of  spring?     My  spirit  Is 

tossed 
About  like  a  shadow  buffeted  In  the  throng 
Of  flames,  a  shadow  that's  gone  astray,  and  is  lost. 


[  75  ] 


REPROACH 

Had  I  but  known  yesterday, 
Helen,  you  could  discharge  the  ache 

Out  of  the  cloud; 
Had  I  known  yesterday  you  could  take 
The  turgid  electric  ache  away, 

Drink  It  up  with  your  proud 
White  body,  as  lovely  white  lightning 
Is  drunk  from  an  agonised  sky  by  the  earth, 
I  might  have  hated  you,  Helen. 

But  since  my  limbs  gushed  full  of  fire. 
Since  from  out  of  my  blood  and  bone 

Poured  a  heavy  flame 
To  you,  earth  of  my  atmosphere,  stone 
Of  my  steel,  lovely  white  flint  of  desire, 

You  have  no  name. 
Earth  of  my  swaying  atmosphere. 
Substance  of  my  inconstant  breath, 
I  cannot  but  cleave  to  you. 


[76] 


REPROACH 

Since  you  have  drunken  up  the  drear 
Painful  electric  storm,  and  death 

Is  washed  from  the  blue 
Of  my  eyes,  I  see  you  beautiful. 
You  are  strong  and  passive  and  beautiful, 
I  come  like  winds  that  uncertain  hover; 

But  you 
Are  the  earth  I  hover  over. 


[  77] 


THE  HANDS  OF  THE  BETROTHED 

Her  tawny  eyes  are  onyx  of  thoughtlessness, 
Hardened  they  are  like  gems  in  ancient  modesty; 
Yea,  and  her  mouth's  prudent  and  crude  caress   * 
Means  even  less  than  her  many  words  to  me. 

Though  her  kiss  betrays  me  also  this,  this  only 
Consolation,  that  in  her  lips  her  blood  at  climax 

clips 
Two  wild,  dumb  paws  in  anguish  on  the  lonely 
Fruit  of  my  heart,  ere  down,  rebuked,  it  slips. 

I  know  from  her  hardened  lips  that  still  her  heart  is 
Hungry  for  me,  yet  if  I  put  my  hand  in  her  breast 
She  puts  me  away,  like  a  saleswoman  whose  mart  is 
Endangered  by  the  pilferer  on  his  quest. 

But  her  hands  are  still  the  woman,  the  large,  strong 

hands 
Heavier    than    mine,    yet    like    leverets    caught    in 

steel 
When  I  hold  them;  my  still  soul  understands 
Their  dumb  confession  of  what  her  sort  must  feel. 

[78  ] 


THE  HANDS  OF  THE  BETROTHED 

For  never  her  hands  come  nigh  me  but  they  lift 
Like    heavy   birds    from   the   morning   stubble,    to 

settle 
Upon  me  like  sleeping  birds,  like  birds  that  shift 
Uneasily  in  their  sleep,  disturbing  my  mettle. 

How  caressingly  she  lays  her  hand  on  my  knee, 
How  strangely  she  tries  to  disown  it,  as  it  sinks 
In  my  flesh  and  bone  and  forages  into  me, 
How   it   stirs   like    a   subtle   stoat,    whatever   she 
thinks ! 

And  often  I  see  her  clench  her  fingers  tight 

And  thrust  her  fists  suppressed  in  the  folds  of  her 

skirt ; 
And  sometimes,  how  she  grasps  her  arms  with  her 

bright 
Big  hands,  as  if  surely  her  arms  did  hurt. 

And  I  have  seen  her  stand  all  unaware 

Pressing  her  spread  hands  over  her  breasts,  as  she 

Would  crush  their  mounds  on  her  heart,  to  kill  in 

there 
The  pain  that  is  her  simple  ache  for  me. 

[  79  ] 


THE  HANDS  OF  THE  BEtROTHE^D 

Her  strong  hands  take  my  part,  the  part  of  a  man 
To  her;  she  crushes  them  into  her  bosom  deep 
Where   I   should  lie,   and  with   her   own   strong 

span 
Closes  her  arms,  that  should  fold  me  in  sleep. 

Ah,  and  she  puts  her  hands  upon  the  wall. 
Presses  them  there,  and  kisses  her  bright  hands. 
Then  lets  her  black  hair  loose,  the  darkness  fall 
About  her  from  her  maiden-folded  bands. 

And  sits  in  her  own  dark  night  of  her  bitter  hair 
Dreaming  —  God  knows  of  what,  for  to  me  she's 

the  same 
Betrothed  young  lady  who  loves  me,  and  takes  care 
Of  her  womanly  virtue  and  of  my  good  name. 


[  80] 


EXCURSION 

I  WONDER,  can  the  nJght  go  by ; 
Can  this  shot  arrow  of  travel  fly 
Shaft-golden  with  light,  sheer  into  the  sky 

Of  a  dawned  to-morrow, 
Without  ever  sleep  delivering  us 
From  each  other,  or  loosing  the  dolorous 

Unfruitful  sorrow! 

What  is  It  then  that  you  can  see 

That  at  the  window  endlessly 

You  watch  the  red  sparks  whirl  and  flee 

And  the  night  look  through? 
Your  presence  peering  lonelily  there 
Oppresses  me  so,  I  can  hardly  bear 

To  share  the  train  with  you. 

You  hurt  my  heart-beats'  privacy; 
I  wish  I  could  put  you  away  from  me ; 
I  suffocate  in  this  intimacy, 

For  all  that  I  love  you; 
How  I  have  longed  for  this  night  in  the  train, 
[8i  ] 


EXCURSION 

Yjet  now  every  fibre  of  me  cries  in  pain 
To  God  to  remove  you. 

But  surely  my  soul's  best  dream  is  still 
That  one  night  pouring  down  shall  swill 
Us  away  in  an  utter  sleep,  until 

We  are  one,  smooth-rounded. 
Yet  closely  bitten  In  to  me 
Is  this  armour  of  stiff  reluctancy 

That  keeps  me  impounded. 

So,  dear  love,  when  another  night 
Pours  on  us,  lift  your  fingers  white 
And  strip  me  naked,  touch  me  light, 

Light,  light  all  over. 
For  I  ache  most  earnestly  for  your  touch, 
Yet  I  cannot  move,  however  much 

I  would  be  your  lover. 

Night  after  night  with  a  blemish  of  day 
Unblown  and  unblossomed  has  withered  away; 
Come  another  night,  come  a  new  night,  say 

Will  you  pluck  me  apart? 
Will  you  open  the  amorous,  aching  bud 
Of  my  body,  and  loose  the  burning  flood 

That  would  leap  to  you  from  my  heart? 
[  82  ] 


PERFIDY 

Hollow  rang  the  house  when  I  knocked  on  the  door, 
And  I  lingered  on  the  threshold  with  my  hand 
Upraised  to  knock  and  knock  once  more : 
Listening  for  the  sound  of  her  feet  across  the  floor, 
Hollow  re-echoed  my  heart. 

The  low-hung  lamps  stretched  down  the  road 
With  shadows  drifting  underneath, 
With  a  music  of  soft,  melodious  feet 
Quickening  my  hope  as  I  hastened  to  meet 
The  low-hung  light  of  her  eyes. 

The  golden  lamps  down  the  street  went  out, 
The  last  car  trailed  the  night  behind; 
And  I  In  the  darkness  wandered  about 
With  a  flutter  of  hope  and  of  dark-shut  doubt 
In  the  dying  lamp  of  my  love. 

Two  brown  ponies  trotting  slowly 
Stopped  at  a  dim-lit  trough  to  drink : 
The  dark  van  drummed  down  the  distance  slowly; 

[  83  ] 


PERFIDY 

While  the  city  stars  so  dim  and  holy 
Drew  nearer  to  search  through  the  streets. 

A  hastening  car  swept  shameful  past, 

I  saw  her  hid  in  the  shadow, 

I  saw  her  step  to  the  curb,  and  fast 

Run  to  the  silent  door,  where  last 

I  had  stood  with  my  hand  uplifted. 

She  clung  to  the  door  in  her  haste  to  enter. 

Entered,  and  quickly  cast 

It  shut  behind  her,  leaving  the  street  aghast. 


[84] 


A  SPIRITUAL  WOMAN 

Close  your  eyes,  my  love,  let  me  make  you  blind ; 

They  have  taught  you  to  see 
Only  a  mean  arithmetic  on  the  face  of  things, 
A  cunning  algebra  in  the  faces  of  men. 

And  God  like  geometry 
Completing  his  circles,  and  working  cleverly. 

I'll  kiss  you  over  the  eyes  till  I  kiss  you  blind; 

If  I  can  —  if  any  one  could. 
Then  perhaps  in  the  dark  you'll  have  got  what  you 

want  to  find. 
YouVe  discovered  so  many  bits,  with  your  clever 
eyes. 
And  Fm  a  kaleidoscope 
That  you  shake  and  shake,  and  yet  it  won't  come  to 

your  mind. 
Now  stop  carping  at  me. —  But  God,  how  I  hate  you ! 

Do  you  fear  I  shall  swindle  you? 
Do  you  think  if  you  take  me  as  I  am,  that  that  will 
abate  you 

[  85  ] 


A  SPIRITUAL  WOMAN 

Somehow?  —  so  sad,  so  Intrinsic,  so  spiritual,  yet  so 
cautious,  you 

Must  have  me  all  in  your  will  and  your  conscious- 
ness— 
I  hate  you. 


[86] 


MATING 

Round  clouds  roll  In  the  arms  of  the  wind, 
The  round  earth  rolls  In  a  clasp  of  blue  sky, 
And  see,  where  the  budding  hazels  are  thinned, 

The  wild  anemones  lie 
In  undulating  shivers  beneath  the  wind. 

Over  the  blue  of  the  waters  ply 
White  ducks,  a  living  flotilla  of  cloud; 
And,  look  you,  floating  just  thereby, 

The  blue-gleamed  drake  stems  proud 
Like  Abraham,  whose  seed  should  multiply. 

In  the  lustrous  gleam  of  the  water,  there 
Scramble  seven  toads  across  the  silk,  obscure  leaves, 
Seven  toads  that  meet  In  the  dusk  to  share 

The  darkness  that  Interweaves 
The  sky  and  earth  and  water  and  live  things  every- 
where. 

Look  now,  through  the  woods  where  the  beech-green 
spurts 

[  87  ] 


MATING 

Like  a  storm  of  emerald  snow,  look,  see 
A  great  bay  stallion  dances,  skirts 
The  bushes  sumptuously, 
Going  outward  now  in  the  spring  to  his  brief  deserts. 

Ah  love,  with  your  rich,  warm  face  aglow, 
What  sudden  expectation  opens  you 

So  wide  as  you  watch  the  catkins  blow, 
Their  dust  from  the  birch  on  the  blue 
Lift  of  the  pulsing  wind  —  ah,  tell  me  you  know ! 

Ah,  surely!     Ah,  sure  from  the  golden  sun 
A  quickening,  masculine  gleam  floats  in  to  all 
'Us  creatures,  people  and  flowers  undone, 
Lying  open  under  his  thrall. 
As  he  begets  the  year  in  us.     What,  then,  would  you   •  | 
shun  ? 

Why,  I  should  think  that  from  the  earth  there  fly 
Fine  thrills  to  the  neighbour  stars,  fine  yellow  beams 
Thrown  lustily  off  from  our  full-blown,  high 
Bursting  globe  of  dreams, 
To  quicken  the  spheres  that  are  virgin  still  in  the  sky. 


[88] 


MATING 

Do  you  not  hear  each  morsel  thrill 
With  joy  at  travelling  to  plant  itself  within 
The  expectant  one,  therein  to  instil 
New  rapture,  new  shape  to  win, 
From  the  thick  of  life  wake  up  another  will? 

Surely,  and  if  that  I  would  spill 
The  vivid,  ah,  the  fiery  surplus  of  life. 
From  off  my  brimming  measure,  to  fill 
You,  and  flush  you  rife 
With  increase,  do  you  call  it  evil,  and  always  evil? 


[89] 


A  LOVE  SONG 

Reject  me  not  If  I  should  say  to  you 

I  do  forget  the  sounding  of  your  voice, 

I  do  forget  your  eyes  that  searching  through 

The  mists  perceive  our  marriage,  and  rejoice. 

Yet,  when  the  apple-blossom  opens  wide 
Under  the  pallid  moonlight's  fingering, 
I  see  your  blanched  face  at  my  breast,  and  hide 
My  eyes  from  diligent  work,  malingering. 

Ah,  then,  upon  my  bedroom  I  do  draw 
The  blind  to  hide  the  garden,  where  the  moon 
Enjoys  the  open  blossoms  as  they  straw 
Their  beauty  for  his  taking,  boon  for  boon. 

And  I  do  lift  my  aching  arms  to  you, 

And  I  do  lift  my  anguished,  avid  breast, 

And  I  do  weep  for  very  pain  of  you, 

And  fling  myself  at  the  doors  of  sleep,  for  rest. 


[90] 


A  LOVE  SONG 

And  I  do  toss  through  the  troubled  night  for  you, 
Dreaming  your  yielded  mouth  is  given  to  mine, 
Feeling  your  strong  breast  carry  me  on  into 
The  peace  where  sleep  is  stronger  even  than  wine. 


[91  ] 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER 

The  shorn  moon  trembling  Indistinct  on  her  path, 

Frail  as  a  scar  upon  the  pale  blue  sky, 

Draws  towards  the  downward  slope;  some  sorrow 

hath 
Worn  her  down  to  the  quick,  so  she  faintly  fares 
Along  her  foot-searched  way  without  knowing  why 
She  creeps  persistent  down  the  sky's  long  stairs. 

Some  say  they  see,  though  I  have  never  seen, 
The  dead  moon  heaped  within  the  new  moon's  arms; 
For  surely  the  fragile,  fine  young  thing  had  been 
Too  heavily  burdened  to  mount  the  heavens  so. 
But  my  heart  stands  still,  as  a  new,  strong  dread 

alarms 
Me ;  might  a  young  girl  be  heaped  with  such  shadow 

of  woe? 

Since  Death  from  the  mother  moon  has  pared  us 

down  to  the  quick, 
And  cast  us  forth  like  shorn,  thin  moons,  to  travel 
An  uncharted  way  among  the  myriad  thick 

t  92  ] 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER 

Strewn  stars  of  silent  people,  and  luminous  litter 
Of  lives  which  sorrows  like  mischievous  dark  mice 

chavel 
To  nought,  diminishing  each  starts  glitter, 

Since   Death  has  delivered  us  utterly,   naked   and 

white. 
Since  the  month  of  childhood  is  over,  and  we  stand 

alone, 
Since  the  beloved,  faded  moon  that  set  us  alight 
Is  delivered  from  us  and  pays  no  heed  though  we 

moan 
In  sorrow,  since  we  stand  in  bewilderment,  strange 
And  fearful  to  sally  forth  down  the  sky's  long  range. 

We  may  not  cry  to  her  still  to  sustain  us  here, 
We  may  not  hold  her  shadow  back  from  the  dark. 
Oh,  let  us  here  forget,  let  us  take  the  sheer 
Unknown  that  lies  before  us,  bearing  the  ark 
Of  the  covenant  onwards  where  she  cannot  go. 
Let  us  rise  and  leave  her  now,  she  will  never  know. 


[93  ] 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS 

I  WONDER  if  with  you,  as  it  Is  with  me, 

If  under  your  slipping  words,  that  easily  flow 

About  you  as  a  garment,  easily, 

Your  violent  heart  beats  to  and  fro ! 

Long  have  I  waited,  never  once  confessed. 
Even  to  myself,  how  bitter  the  separation; 
Now,  being  come  again,  how  make  the  best 
Reparation? 

If  I  could  cast  this  clothing  off  from  me, 
If  I  could  lift  my  naked  self  to  you. 
Or  if  only  you  would  repulse  me,  a  wound  would  be 
Good;  It  would  let  the  ache  come  through. 

But  that  you  hold  me  still  so  kindly  cold 
Aloof  my  flaming  heart  will  not  allow; 
Yea,  but  I  loathe  you  that  you  should  withhold 
Your  pleasure  now. 


[94] 


BLUE 

The  earth  again  like  a  ship  steams  out  of  the  dark 

sea  over 
The  edge  of  the  blue,  and  the  sun  stands  up  to  see 

us  glide 
Slowly  into  another  day;  slowly  the  rover 
Vessel  of  darkness  takes  the  rising  tide. 

I,  on  the  deck,  am  startled  by  this  dawn  confronting 
Me   who   am   issued   amazed   from   the   darkness, 

stripped 
And  quailing  here  in  the  sunshine,  delivered  from 

haunting 
The  night  unsounded  whereon  our  days  are  shipped. 

Feeling  myself  undawning,  the  day's  light  playing 

upon  me, 
I  who  am  substance  of  shadow,  I  all  compact 
Of  the  stuff  of  the  night,  finding  myself  all  wrongly 
Among  the  crowds  of  things  in  the  sunshine  jostled 

and  racked. 

[95  ] 


BLUE 

I  with  the  night  on  my  lips,  I  sigh  with  the  silence 

of  death ; 
And  what  do  I  care  though  the  very  stones  should 

cry  me  unreal,  though  the  clouds 
Shine  in  conceit  of  substance  upon  me,  who  am  less 

than  the  rain. 
Do  I  not  know  the  darkness  within  them?     What 

are  they  but  shrouds? 

The  clouds  go  down  the  sky  with  a  wealthy  ease 
Casting  a  shadow  of  scorn  upon  me  for  my  share  in 

death;  but  I 
Hold  my  own  in  the  midst  of  them,  darkling,  defy 
The  whole  of  the  day  to  extinguish  the  shadow  I  lift 

on  the  breeze. 

Yea,   though  the  very  clouds  have  vantage   over 

me, 
Enjoying  their  glancing  flight,  though  my  love  is 

dead, 
I  still  am  not  homeless  here,  IVe  a  tent  by  day 
Of  darkness  where  she  sleeps  on  her  perfect  bed. 


[96] 


BLUE 

And  I  know  the  host,  the  minute  sparkling  of  dark- 
ness 

Which  vibrates  untouched  and  virile  through  the 
grandeur  of  night, 

But  which,  when  dawn  crows  challenge,  assaulting 
the  vivid  motes 

Of  living  darkness,  bursts  fretfully,  and  is  bright: 

Runs  like  a  fretted  arc-lamp  into  light, 
Stirred  by  conflict  to  shining,  which  else 
Were  dark  and  whole  with  the  night. 

Runs  to  a  fret  of  speed  like  a  racing  wheel. 
Which  else  were  aslumber  along  with  the  whole 
Of  the  dark,  swinging  rhythmic  instead  of  a-reel. 

Is  chafed  to  anger,  bursts  into  rage  like  thun- 
der; 

Which  else  were  a  silent  grasp  that  held  the 
heavens 

Arrested,  beating  thick  with  wonder. 

Leaps  like  a  fountain  of  blue  sparks  leaping 
In  a  jet  from  out  of  obscurity, 
Which  erst  was  darkness  sleeping. 
[  97  ] 


BLUE 

Runs  into  streams  of  bright  blue  drops, 
Water  and  stones  and  stars,  and  myriads 
Of  twin-blue  eyes,  and  crops 

Of  floury  grain,  and  all  the  hosts  of  day. 
All  lovely  hosts  of  ripples  caused  by  fretting 
The  Darkness  into  play. 


[98] 


SNAP-DRAGON 

She  bade  me  follow  to  her  garden,  where 
The  mellow  sunlight  stood  as  in  a  cup 
Between  the  old  grey  walls;  I  did  not  dare 
To  raise  my  face,  I  did  not  dare  look  up, 
Lest  her  bright  eyes  like  sparrows  should  fly  in 
My  windows  of  discovery,  and  shrill  "  Sin." 

So  with  a  downcast  mien  and  laughing  voice 
I  followed,  followed  the  swing  of  her  white  dress 
That  rocked  in  a  lilt  along :  I  watched  the  poise 
Of  her  feet  as  they  flew  for  a  space,  then  paused  to 

press 
The  grass  deep  down  with  the  royal  burden  of  her : 
And  gladly  I'd  offered  my  breast  to  the  tread  of  her. 

"  I  like  to  see,"  she  said,  and  she  crouched  her  down, 
She  sunk  into  my  sight  like  a  settling  bird ; 
And  her  bosom  couched  in  the  confines  of  her  gown 
Like  heavy  birds  at  rest  there,  softly  stirred 
By  her  measured  breaths :  "  I  like  to  see,"  said  she, 
"  The  snap-dragon  put  out  his  tongue  at  me." 

[99] 


SNAP-DRAGON 

She  laughed,  she  reached  her  hand  out  to  the  flower, 
Closing  its  crimson  throat.     My  own  throat  in  her 

power 
Strangled,  my  heart  swelled  up  so  full 
As  if  it  would  burst  its  wine-skin  in  my  throat. 
Choke  me  in  my  own  crimson.     I  watched  her  pull 
The  gorge  of  the  gaping  flower,  till  the  blood  did 

float 

Over  my  eyes,  and  I  was  blind  — 
Her  large  brown  hand  stretched  over 
The  windows  of  my  mind ; 
And  there  in  the  dark  I  did  discover 
Things  I  was  out  to  find: 
My  Grail,  a  brown  bowl  twined 
With  swollen  veins  that  met  in  the  wrist, 
Under  whose  brown  the  amethyst 
I  longed  to  taste.     I  longed  to  turn 
My  heart's  red  measure  in  her  cup, 
I  longed  to  feel  my  hot  blood  burn 
With  the  amethyst  in  her  cup. 

Then  suddenly  she  looked  up. 
And  I  was  blind  in  a  tawny-gold  day. 
Till  she  took  her  eyes  away. 
[   lOO  ] 


SNAP-DRAGON 

So  she  came  down  from  above 
And  emptied  my  heart  of  love. 
So  I  held  my  heart  aloft 
To  the  cuckoo  that  hung  like  a  dove, 
And  she  settled  soft. 

It  seemed  that  I  and  the  morning  world 
Were  pressed  cup-shape  to  take  this  reiver 
Bird  who  was  weary  to  have  furled 
Her  wings  in  us, 
As  we  were  weary  to  receive  her. 

This  bird,  this  rich, 
Sumptuous   central  grain, 
This  mutable  witch, 
This  one  refrain. 
This  laugh  in  the  fight, 
This  clot  of  night. 
This  core  of  delight. 

She  spoke,  and  I  closed  my  eyes 
To  shut  hallucinations  out. 
I  echoed  with  surprise 
Hearing  my  mere  lips  shout 
The  answer  they  did  devise. 
[  loi  ] 


SNAP-DRAGON 

Again  I  saw  a  brown  bird  hover 
Over  the  flowers  at  my  feet; 
I  felt  a  brown  bird  hover 
Over  my  heart,  and  sweet 
Its  shadow  lay  on  my  heart. 
I  thought  I  saw  on  the  clover 
A  brown  bee  pulling  apart 
The  closed  flesh  of  the  clover 
And  burrowing  in  its  heart. 

She  moved  her  hand,  and  again 

I  felt  the  brown  bird  cover 

My  heart;  and  then 

The  bird  came  down  on  my  heart, 

As  on  a  nest  the  rover 

Cuckoo  comes,  and  shoves  over 

The  brim  each  careful  part 

Of  love,  takes  possession,  and  settles  her  down. 

With  her  wings  and  her  feathers  to  drown 

The  nest  in  a  heat  of  love. 

She  turned  her  flushed  face  to  me  for  the  glint 
Of  a  moment.     ''  See,"  she  laughed,  "  if  you  also 
Can  make  them  yawn."     I  put  my  hand  to  the  dint 

[    102   ]  \ 


SNAP-DRAGON 

In  the  flower's  throat,  and  the  flower  gaped  wide 

with  woe. 
She  watched,  she  went  of  a  sudden  intensely  still, 
She  watched  my  hand,  to  see  what  I  would  fulfil. 

I  pressed  the  wretched,  throttled  flower  between 

My  fingers,  till  its  head  lay  back,  its  fangs 

Poised  at  her.     Like  a  weapon  my  hand  was  white 

and  keen, 
And  I  held  the  choked  flower-serpent  in  its  pangs 
Of  mordant  anguish,  till  she  ceased  to  laugh, 
Until  her  pride's  flag,  smitten,  cleaved  down  to  the 

staff. 

She  hid  her  face,  she  murmured  between  her  lips 
The  low  word  "  Don't.''     I  let  the  flower  fall. 
But  held  my  hand  afloat  towards  the  slips 
Of  blossom  she  fingered,  and  my  fingers  all 
Put  forth  to  her:  she  did  not  move,  nor  I, 
For  my  hand  like  a  snake  watched  hers,  that  could 
not  fly. 

Then  I  laughed  in  the  dark  of  my  heart,  I  did  exult 
Like  a  sudden  chuckling  of  music.  I  bade  her  eyes 
Meet  mine,  I  opened  her  helpless  eyes  to  consult 

[  103  ] 


SNAP-DRAGON 

Their  fear,  their  shame,  their  joy  that  underlies 
Defeat  In  such  a  battle.     In  the  dark  of  her  eyes 
My  heart  was  fierce  to  make  her  laughter  rise. 

Till  her  dark  deeps  shook  with  convulsive  thrills,  and 

the  dark 
Of  her  spirit  wavered  like  water  thrilled  with  light; 
And  my  heart  leaped  up  in  longing  to  plunge  its  stark 
Fervour  within  the  pool  of  her  twilight, 
Within  her  spacious  soul,  to  grope  in  delight. 

And  I  do  not  care,  though  the  large  hands  of  revenge 
Shall  get  my  throat  at  last,  shall  get  It  soon. 
If  the  joy  that  they  are  searching  to  avenge 
Have  risen  red  on  my  night  as  a  harvest  moon. 
Which  even  death  can  only  put  out  for  me; 
And  death,  I  know,  is  better  than  not-to-be. 


[  104  ] 


A  PASSING  BELL 

Mournfully  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro  the  trees  are 
waving; 
What  did  you  say,  my  dear? 
The  raln-brulsed  leaves  are  suddenly  shaken,  as  a 

child 
Asleep  still  shakes  in  the  clutch  of  a  sob  — 
Yes^  my  love,  I  hear. 

One  lonely  bell,  one  only,  the  storm-tossed  afternoon 
Is  braving. 
Why  not  let  it  ring? 
The  roses  lean  down  when  they  hear  it,  the  tender, 

mild 
Flowers  of  the  bleeding-heart  fall  to  the  throb  — 
It  is  such  a  little  thing! 

A  wet  bird  walks  on  the  lawn,  call  to  the  boy  to  come 
and  look, 
Yes,  it  is  over  now. 
Call  to  him  out  of  the  silence,  call  him  to  see 

[  105  ] 


A  PASSING  BELL 

The  starling  shaking  its  head  as  it  walks-  in  the 
grass  — 
Ahf  who  knows  how? 

He  cannot  see  it,  I  can  never  show  it  him,  how  it 
shook  — 

Don^t  disturb  him,  darling. 
—  Its  head  as  it  walked :  I  can  never  call  him  to  me, 
Never,  he  is  not,  whatever  shall  come  to  pass. 

No,  look  at  the  wet  starling. 


[  io6] 


IN  TROUBLE  AND  SHAME 

I  LOOK  at  the  swaling  sunset 
And  wish  I  could  go  also 
Through  the  red  doors  beyond  the  black-purple  bar. 

I  wish  that  I  could  go 
Through  the  red  doors  where  I  could  put  off 

My  shame  like  shoes  in  the  porch, 

My  pain  like  garments, 
And  leave  my  flesh  discarded  lying 
Like  luggage  of  some  departed  traveller 

Gone  one  knows  not  where. 

Then  I  would  turn  round. 
And  seeing  my  cast-off  body  lying  like  lumber, 
I  would  laugh  with  joy. 


I  107  ] 


ELEGY 

Since  I  lost  you,  my  darling,  the  sky  has  come  near, 
And  I  am  of  it,  the  small  sharp  stars  are  quite  near, 
The  white  moon  going  among  them  like  a  white  bird 

among  snow-berries, 
And  the  sound  of  her  gently  rustling  in  heaven  like 

a  bird  I  hear. 

And  I  am  willing  to  come  to  you  now,  my  dear. 
As  a  pigeon  lets  itself  off  from  a  cathedral  dome 
To  be  lost  in  the  haze  of  the  sky,  I  would  like  to 

come, 
And  be  lost  out  of  sight  with  you,  and  be  gone  like 

foam. 

For  I  am  tired,  my  dear,  and  if  I  could  lift  my  feet. 
My  tenacious  feet  from  off  the  dome  of  the  earth 
To  fall  like  a  breath  within  the  breathing  wind 
Where  you  are  lost,  what  rest,  my  love,  what  rest! 


[  io8  ] 


GREY  EVENING 

When  you  went,  how  was  It  you  carried  with  you 
My  missal  book  of  fine,  flamboyant  hours? 
My  book  of  turrets  and  of  red-thorn  bowers, 
And  skies  of  gold,  and  ladies  in  bright  tissue? 

Now  underneath  a  blue-grey  twilight,  heaped 
Beyond  the  withering  snow  of  the  shorn  fields 
Stands  rubble  of  stunted  houses;  all  is  reaped 
And  garnered  that  the  golden  daylight  yields. 

Dim  lamps  like  yellow  poppies  glimmer  among 
The  shadowy  stubble  of  the  under-dusk. 
As  farther  off  the  scythe  of  night  Is  swung. 
And  little  stars  come  rolling  from  their  husk. 

And  all  the  earth  is  gone  into  a  dust 
Of  greyness  mingled  with  a  fume  of  gold. 
Covered  with  aged  lichens,  pale  with  must. 
And  all  the  sky  has  withered  and  gone  cold. 


[  io9  ] 


GREY  EVENING 

And  so  I  sit  and  scan  the  book  of  grey, 
Feeling  the  shadows  like  a  blind  man  reading, 
All  fearful  lest  I  find  the  last  words  bleeding 
With  wounds  of  sunset  and  the  dying  day. 


[  no  ] 


FIRELIGHT  AND  NIGHTFALL 

The  darkness  steals  the  forms  of  all  the  queens, 
But  oh,  the  palms  of  his  two  black  hands  are  red, 
Inflamed  with  binding  up  the  sheaves  of  dead 
Hours  that  were  once  all  glory  and  all  queens. 

And  I  remember  all  the  sunny  hours 

Of  queens  in  hyacinth  and  skies  of  gold, 

And  morning  singing  where  the  woods  are  scrolled 

And  diapered  above  the  chaunting  flowers. 

Here  lamps  are  white  like  snowdrops  in  the  grass; 
The  town  Is  like  a  churchyard,  all  so  still 
And  grey  now  night  is  here ;  nor  will 
Another  torn  red  sunset  come  to  pass. 


[  III  ] 


THE  MYSTIC  BLUE 

Out  of  the  darkness,  fretted  sometimes  in  its  sleep- 
ing, 
Jets  of  sparks  In  fountains  of  blue  come  leaping 
To  sight,  revealing  a  secret,  numberless  secrets  keep- 
ing. 

Sometimes  the  darkness  trapped  within  a  wheel 
Runs  Into  speed  like  a  dream,  the  blue  of  the  steel 
Showing  the  rocking  darkness  now  a-reel. 

And  out  of  the  invisible,  streams  of  bright  blue  drops 
Rain   from  the  showery  heavens,   and  bright  blue 

crops 
Surge  from  the  under-dark  to  their  ladder-tops. 

And  all  the  manifold  blue  and  joyous  eyes, 
The  rainbow  arching  over  in  the  skies, 
New  sparks  of  wonder  opening  in  surprise. 

All  these  pure  things  come  foam  and  spray  of  the  sea 
Of  Darkness  abundant,  which  shaken  mysteriously, 

[    112    ] 


THE  MYSTIC  BLUE 

Ereaks  into  dazzle  of  living,  as  dolphins  that  leap 

from  the  sea 
Of  midnight  shake  it  to  fire,  so  the  secret  of  death 

we  see. 


THE   END 


<. 


THE 

mmB  HOUSE 

S;NFB/\NCISG3 


